


Revenge is a Dish Best Served With Love

by phonecallfromgod



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Weddings, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23082151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phonecallfromgod/pseuds/phonecallfromgod
Summary: With Great PleasureDivya Narendra&Cameron WinklevossAlong with Their FamiliesInvite You to Join Them at the Celebration of Their MarriageOr, sending the dude who paid out 65 million dollars in a lawsuit an invitation to your wedding stops being petty revenge when he actually shows
Relationships: Divya Narendra/Cameron Winklevoss, Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 138





	Revenge is a Dish Best Served With Love

**Author's Note:**

> The only things I researched for this fic were the price of Vitamix blenders and when Fitbits launched so I can only stand by the accuracy of those two facts.

In Divya’s defense he was drunk and he’s an asshole. 

Cameron and Tyler were also drunk, and are also assholes. 

So he shouldn’t have to carry the blame for that. 

And they’re only drunk because trying to figure out which of Howard Winklevoss’ golf buddies they have to invite to his fucking wedding is already torturous, even an entire bottle of Yamazaki 18 deep. 

“If I hear another, ‘the third,’ I’m going to fucking kill myself,” Divya says, the hand holding his mostly empty whiskey glass draped off the couch. Cameron looks up from his laptop, eyes bright but slightly unfocused behind his glasses, betraying how far gone he is. God, there’s something about having Cameron slightly off his game that Divya finds unbelievably sexy. 

Tyler and Cameron have never really drank that much, the whole (former) Olympic level athlete super regulated diet and exercise and blah blah blah. Maybe that’s why they’re all a little more giddy than usual, like college freshman at a frat party for the first time. 

“Jesus, isn’t this what you have a wedding planner for?” Tyler says, sunk down into his own chair. “Isn’t this her job?” 

“Eloise just sends invites out, we have to tell her who they need to go to,” Cam says, “Let's come back to dad’s friends. Let’s do some easier people.” 

They scroll quickly through some of Cameron’s colleagues, former crew teammates, a mix of Porcellian members they actually tolerate and some that they have to invite because it's the thing to do, or because they invited one of them to their weddings first. 

Unless, of course, Divya nixes them because they sent himself and Cameron separate invitations to their own weddings. 

“You know who you should fucking invite,” Tyler says, Cameron typing away at his keyboard in the background. 

“Who?” 

“Zuckerberg.” 

Cameron scoffs. “If you’re not going to help, I can call you a car.” 

“No I’m serious,” Tyler sits up a little further in the overstuffed leather chair that Howard had given Cameron as a birthday gift. Or maybe for some sort of promotion? Divya can’t remember. “I mean when you think about it, he is paying for the wedding, so it’s the least you can do.” 

“He’s got a point,” Divya says, tossing back the last of his glass. “God, it would be worth it just to imagine the goddamn look on his face when he gets the invitation.” 

Tyler crows with laughter, “Cam, c’mon, you have to.” 

“You think he’d actually come?” 

“Fuck no,” Divya says. “But he might have his assistant buy us something nice off the registry, squeeze a little more out of that fucker.” 

“There really is no downside,” Tyler says, rocking his ankle back and forth against the coffee table. Cameron stares at the computer screen, considering, hands posed over the keyboard. 

Divya knows that people think Cameron is the nice one. The one with the code of honour, talk of chivalry, old school notions of gentlementry. Divya has always known this has been kind of bullshit, that Cameron’s reputation comes from comparison more than anything else. 

Which is why it’s Cameron who says, “Fuck it, lets add Eduardo Saverin to the list too.” 

They kick Tyler out after that, barely able to wait until he’s out the door to get their hands on each other. With Cameron, the sex has always been good. He’s a former Olympian champion whose middle name is determination for fuck’s sake, the bar is pretty high on an average day, but Divya can tell already that they’re skipping straight to the top of their greatest hits. Pun, entirely intended. 

Honestly it’s so fucking good that Divya doesn’t even once complain about Cameron keeping his fitbit on. 

He wakes up with a hangover and thighs that ache for two days afterwards, but he never really thinks about their additions to the guest list after that. 

Receiving lines have got to be some circle of hell, Divya is sure of it. It had seemed like such a good idea, such a fuck-you to anyone who would have anything to say about him and Cameron to do their wedding exactly by the book, only bigger and better than any of their colleagues. Cameron and Divya are men of destiny and ambition, and neither of them have ever thought they should compromise that over who they take to bed. 

On paper, Divya still stood behind it. In reality, spending the first hour of his married life shaking the hand of every Winklevoss in New England is a little bit like qualifying for the Olympics and then coming in sixth place. 

“No fucking way,” Tyler says under his breath beside Divya, while on his other side Cameron nods along politely to some grey-haired lawyer friend of his dad’s who keeps calling him Tyler. 

Divya’s about to ask for clarification when he spots the hoodie. 

Mark Zuckerberg is in the receiving line, right behind Divya’s freshman year roommate and yet another Winklevoss cousin. He’s wearing slacks, decent shoes, a button up shirt and tie, but he’s got a grey hoodie unzipped over the whole thing. Like it would ruin his precious brand to wear a blazer to a wedding that cost over three million dollars. 

“Son of a bitch,” Divya says. 

He’s braced for a condescending remark, some kind of one-line zinger that only Mark Zuckerberg would find remotely amusing, the kind of thing comment that made Divya want to lean across the table and throttle him. 

Somehow it’s even more disconcerting when all he says is “Mazel Tov,” shakes Divya’s hand and then Cameron’s before disappearing into the crowd. 

Diyva honestly wishes he’d made more of a scene, maybe then he would be able to tap out of this early. 

“Tyler, I need you to go find Eloise,” Cameron says when there’s a slight hold up in the line, someone lingering to talk to his dad. 

“Why?” 

“Ask her if Eduardo Saverin RVSPed.” 

Divya and Cameron are shuffled off for photos during the cocktail hour, but when they return Tyler doesn’t even have to say anything, it’s all over his face. He’s never really been very good at hiding that kind of thing. 

“Well, shit,” Cameron says. 

“I got her to move them so they’re not at the same table at least,” Tyler offers with a shrug. 

“Well thank fucking god for small mercies,” Divya says, rubbing a hand over his face. This all feels horribly familiar in the worst possible way. “What the hell is wrong with them? Why did they come? Is this some sort of weird power play?” 

“You mean like inviting the person who you sued for sixty five million dollars to your wedding?” Cameron asks. 

“Don’t be smug. You agreed. And it was your idea to invite Saverin.” Tyler shoots back. 

Cameron sighs, unbuttoning his jacket so he can cross his arms. “I mean, we could ask them to leave.” 

“Oh yeah that’d look great for us, you think Zuckerberg’s PR team wouldn’t have an absolute field day with that?” Divya says. “No, we’re not doing that.” 

Tyler shrugs. “Suit yourself. I need another fucking drink.” 

Cameron stares after his brother for a long moment, until Divya taps him on the arm, “Hey. C’mon what are you thinking?” 

“Honestly? That we should have eloped,” Cam makes a face. “Okay actually, not really, I just. I don’t give a fuck if Zuckerberg and Saverin are here, haven’t we given them enough of our life already? It’s our wedding Div, we’re never doing this again. Can’t we just at least try to enjoy it? Can’t we just do that? Please?” 

“God you are getting so soft on me,” Divya says, pulling on Cameron’s collar until he gets the message and leans down for him. 

“Yeah,” Cameron says, meeting him in the middle. “I’ve heard marriage will do that to you.” 

Divya’s not exactly sure when the 90 proof vodka got busted out, but it was definitely sometime after Howard came over and told him and the twins how proud he was of them for “working things out” with Mark Zuckerberg. So, can you blame Divya for accepting the bottle when someone from Porc produces it? Especially when most of his family and the other older guests are starting to filter out following the $250 a plate sit-down dinner and the cake cutting. 

He’s not an idiot about it, though. He’s not going to be one of those assholes who gets totally smashed on his wedding night. And he knows well enough to “accidentally” misplace the bottle at the right moment, wandering into one of the excessively formal bathrooms to hide it in a stall. 

His head spins a little when he stands, but otherwise he feels fine. He’ll down some water and he knows for a fact that Cam has a twelve pack of Gatorade in the back of his car.

Divya is still thinking about the Gatorade when he pushes out of the stall, it swinging noiselessly shut behind him as he spots Mark Zuckerberg at the sink, surveying the soap dispenser.

Divya forces himself to straighten his spine and relax his shoulders, make his walk as purposeful as possible on his way out. He’s already past Zuckerberg at the sink when he says suddenly; 

“You aren’t going to wash your hands?”

Divya stops, turns on his heel and looks at Zuckerberg incredulously in the mirror. “I was just putting something in the stall.”

“What were you putting in the stall?”

“None of your business.”

Divya couldn’t explain how, but somehow Zuckerberg manages to make waving his hands under the auto-soap dispenser the most passive aggressive thing Divya has even seen. He pushes up his hoodie sleeves, and starts lathering up to the elbow like he’s a surgeon prepping for surgery. 

“They say your odds of getting sick go down at least fifty percent if you wash your hands five times a day with soap.”

Fuck. Divya relents unclasping his cuff links and sticking them in his pocket, trying his best to ignore Zuckerberg as he washes his hands. 

“Happy?” Divya says, shaking his hands twice in the sink and reaching for the thick cloth like paper towels. 

“Is it weird having seen your brother-in-law’s dick by proxy? You know. With the whole twin thing?” 

“Is it weird being the asshole who showed up to a black tie event wearing a hoodie?” Divya shoots back. It’s his party and he’ll be petty if he wants to. He’s turning to go, fishing his cuff links out of his jacket pocket, so ready to get another drink in with his friends and call it a night. 

“I got you the Vitamix. From your registry. But I’ll gladly exchange it if you are unhappy with it.” Mark Zuckerberg blurts. 

Divya pauses. “You don’t strike me as a high-end blender buying kind of person” 

“I’m not. It was exactly the median cost of all the items on your registry. I figured it would be seen as insulting if I got you the lowest cost item and like I was showing off to get you the highest.” 

Divya considers this for a moment. He’s not wrong, he turns to look at Zuckerberg properly. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you here?”

“I was invited.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Is it because you’re gay? Because my friend Chris is gay. I am a friend to the LGBT community.”

Divya snorts, “Wow, thank you.” 

“You seem upset that I’m here, but you’re the one who invited me. I assumed you and the Winklevi were extending the olive branch so to speak.” 

“Alright, fine,” Divya says. “Thanks for the blender.”

Mark nods solemnly, still up to his elbows in soap, and goes back to methodically scrubbing his hands. 

Divya’s halfway to the door, mostly distracted with his cufflink, when it swings open and Eduardo Saverin walks in the room. 

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. 

He’s not sure exactly what he expects, it’s not like he thinks Saverin is going to launch himself across the room at Zuckerberg, but he expects _something_. Or at least something more substantial than both of them freezing like deer in headlights, eyes wide as they stare at each other over the sound of the automatic water running. 

“Mark?” Saverin says. 

“Eduardo,” Zuckerberg says. 

But not like. Not like you would expect two people who were engaged in a lawsuit to say each other’s names. Not spat out but said...gently. 

Oh god Divya really needs to leave. 

He abandons his cufflink and brushes past Saverin, shoes clicking with a hard echo on the floor, door swinging shut behind him not fast enough to cut off Saverin’s halfheartedly fond, “God this outfit. You’re impossible.” 

Maybe leaving the vodka in the bathroom was a bad idea after all. 

He’s already trying to run through what he’s going to tell Cameron about whatever the _fuck_ he just witnessed when he rounds the corner and he’s standing there, leaned up against a pillar, beer held loosely in one hand. 

Cam’s abandoned his jacket and pushed up the sleeves on his shirt so he can show off his forearms. God if he isn’t every fucking lax bro douchebag that Divya hated in high school, the kind he worked extra hard to beat just so he could rub his Harvard admission in their faces. Little did he know that Harvard University would dump him at the feet of not one, but two, blond-haired blue-eyed six-foot-five adonises. 

“Hey,” Cameron calls, the twitch of a smile crossing his face. “You come here often?” 

“Has that line ever actually worked on anyone in the history of ever?” 

“Dunno. Maybe we could be making history,” Cam says, his free hand finding the small of Divya’s back. 

“Thanks, but I’m already married,” Divya says, holding up his left hand. It still doesn’t feel quite real, a fact that he logically knows but can’t emotionally understand. Weirdly the only thing he can compare it to is the lawsuit, knowing they won, but not fully comprehending it until much later. 

“Your husband must be a very lucky guy,” Cam says, digging his heels harder into the stupid bit. 

“Yeah you probably don’t wanna mess with him. He’s obnoxiously tall, ripped, actually likes going to the gym.” 

“Huh, sounds like my brother Tyler.” 

“Oh god,” Divya makes a face, “Don’t even joke about that that’s disgusting.” 

Divya knows that even for identical twins, people find Cameron and Tyler hard to tell apart. Hell, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a hard time telling them apart when they first met, having to rely on memorizing whatever they were wearing that day. But now it’s like when he looks at them, it sounds stupid, he’d never say this out loud, but he just sees _them_. He can look at two unnervingly identical people and be attracted to one of them so much it almost drove him crazy, and feel nothing but friendly affection for the other. It’s weird. 

“We should have spent the money for this wedding on height reduction surgery,” Divya says, dropping the act and pulling Cameron down to a more manageable height. 

“Or getting you some lifts.” 

“Fuck you, I’m literally the average American male height, you’re the freak of nature,” Divya says, the end of the sentence coming out a bit garbled because Cameron’s already moving in for the kill. 

He’s a competitive racer, he knows the importance of getting there first.

“Uh, hey guys?” Ethan McNamara, Tyler’s freshman year roommate says some time later, 

“What,” Cameron says, biting, right on the edge of snapping, his hand still caught in Divya’s jacket. 

Ethan at least has the decency to look a little sheepish. “Do you guys know where the Vodka went? The good stuff?” 

“It’s in the bathroom,” Divya says. He’s past the point of caring anymore, lying seems pointless. 

“Cool, cool,” Ethan says, “I’ll just— leave you to it.” 

“You’re crushing my jacket,” Diyva complains.

“God, I love you,” Cameron says, he runs a thumb over his brow bone, just above Divya’s eyebrow. “I know you kind of hate this.”

“What? The wedding?” 

“Yeah,” Cam says, like it’s the most endearing thing Divya’s ever done. 

“Only kind of.” He’s not going to lie about it. The only parts of having a 450 guest, three-million-dollar wedding that he’s really enjoyed are the petty parts. But not doing it has never been an option with Cameron’s family. “I love you a lot more than I hate it. I mean, I love you more than I hate anything, really.”

It would almost be a nice moment, the kind of thing that Divya would reflect on for years to come, but Ethan McNamara has to come practically skidding around the corner, interrupting them once again. 

“Dude, what the hell,” Cameron says. 

“Did you find it?” Divya asks, mostly rhetorically because Ethan’s hands are empty. 

“Yeah, uh, hey. There’s definitely, someone’s getting su— there’s definitely some people uh. Getting it on. In one of the stalls. Just thought you should know!” Ethan says, not even slowing his stride, the words barely getting out before he’s whirled around another corner. 

“I think that’s a sign,” Divya says. 

“Of what?” 

“That maybe it’s time for the guests of honour to slink off while no one’s watching.” 

“I’ll text Eloise,” Cameron says, overly eager, showing Divya all his cards faster than you can say Consummation. 

Three million dollars and a six-tiered cake later, Divya will still remember the most romantic moment of the whole affair as when Cameron didn’t bother to put his fitbit back on for their wedding night. 

It takes them almost six months to get around to thank-you cards. And this time, it’s not because they’re assholes, but because trying to place four hundred and fifty guests to gifts is something that requires literal spreadsheets of data to complete. 

“Can’t we just tell them all we got divorced,” Divya says. Again. 

“You know how many lawyers would be up our asses if they even catch a whiff of marital distress? You think that’s more fun to deal with than thank-you cards?” 

Divya rolls his eyes but addresses another card from the list of addresses on the spreadsheet. They’ve been moving alphabetically through the guest list 

“Cheer up, we’re already on the Ws,” Cam says, dipping an honest to god fountain pen in a pot of ink. God, he’s such a douchebag. 

“That would be a lot more exciting if your last name wasn’t Winklevoss.” 

“What’s another word for grateful? And don’t say thankful, I’ve already used that one too many times,” Cameron says. 

“Uhhh,” Divya pulls up thesaurus.com on his phone. “Beholden? Indebted? Pleased? Gratified?” 

“ _Pleased_ ,” Cameron mutters, and goes back to his card writing, cap between his teeth. 

“I’ll give you a blowjob if we can finish this tomorrow,” Divya offers. 

“I’ll give _you_ a blowjob if we finish this today,” Cam counters. 

Alright. That’s a deal Divya can live with. 

Every Winklevoss in New England later, they finally hit the other side. Cameron massaging his writing hand as Divya scrolls down through the spreadsheet. They only have half a dozen people left, three Vs, an X, a Y, and. 

“Oh fuck me,” Divya says. 

“I already said after,” Cameron says offhanded, still preoccupied with stretching his wrist. 

“No I mean, look who’s the last person on the list,” Divya says, turning the laptop towards Cameron. 

“Oh fuck off,” Cameron says. “I’m not writing Mark Zuckerberg a thank-you note.” 

“Who’s a gentleman of distinction and honour now?” 

Divya is mostly kidding but Cameron looks actually troubled by that. “Well, did he even get us anything good?” 

“He got us the Vitamix.” 

“I love the Vitamix!” Cameron practically gasps, entirely sincere betrayal in his voice. 

“I know, I didn’t want to tell you,” Divya says. 

“I cannot believe you’ve been letting me drink Zuckerberg smoothies for months now and not saying anything, not cool Div,” Cameron huffs, throwing his pen down. 

Normally Divya would be all over this moment of Winklevoss melodrama, but something on the spreadsheet catches his attention. “Wait, the fuck,” he says, mostly to himself, leaning in to get a better look at the address. “Holy shit.” 

“What?” Cameron asks, sitting up and leaning over while Divya shuffles through the piles of already addressed letters. 

“You have got to be shitting me,” Divya says, when he finally snags the one he’s looking for and holds it up beside the computer. 

“That’s. That’s the same address,” Cameron says slowly. “Why do Eduardo Saverin and Mark Zuckerberg have the same address?” 

Divya, who was in the bathroom with them, has at least a hunch. 

“Holy fuck,” Divya says suddenly remembering what Ethan had said. 

“What?’ Cameron says. 

“I think our wedding? Just got Saverin and Zuckerberg together.” 

“You’re joking.” 

“Not even a little.” 

“Okay, that’s it,” Cameron says, “This is the last time we’re giving Mark Zuckerberg any ideas.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks to youshallnotfinditso and evol_love for encouraging, indulging, and betaing my ever increasingly indulgent ideas. Find me on tumblr where I'm also phonecallfrom god.


End file.
